


Cities in Dust

by seatbeltdrivein



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-manga AU. The Fuhrer has a responsibility to the people and the nation that often supersedes his own desires. When Roy's forced to send Ed to the northern front, he vows to end the war as soon as possible – but reality is rarely so kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_big_apple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/gifts).



> (Post-manga AU – Ed still has his alchemy and his automail)

He'd left the letter open on his desk. The ink needed to dry. Roy had a terrible habit of forgetting himself, of folding letters closed about thirty seconds before they were ready. He was forever receiving irate letters in return, demanding to know why he'd even bothered posting a mess of inky blots.

For a moment, his eyes fell on the text, his own fine cursive, _in response to threats from_ , and at the very bottom, even after his name, _I'm sorry._

He shouldn't have bothered. The words, whether written or spoken, were empty. They had no power to change what was and what must be.

A knock on the door. Roy closed his eyes, taking a brief moment to just _breathe_ , to remind himself that the world would keep on turning. "Come in."

Ed let the door swing open, kicking it closed behind him as he strolled in, hands in his pockets and a grin on his face. "This is different," he observed. "You callin' me in here. Is this a date?" Ed was laughing, was smiling and happy and –

Roy couldn't meet his eyes, leaving his gaze to settle on Ed's chin, a safe distance from the center of emotional expression. "Fullmetal Alchemist," he began, and couldn't keep himself from looking up and taking notice of the change on Ed's face, the smile morphing into something measured and neutral. "There's an order for you," _please, god, just don't make me have to say it, don't make me have to voice it_ , "on the desk." His voice sounded strained, and Ed was beginning to look alarmed. "Go take a look."

A slight hesitation before, "Sir," and Ed crossing the room, grabbing the paper and holding it carefully at the far edges so he could read without disrupting the ink. "In accordance with your contract," Ed began aloud, "and in response to threats from Drachma—" He went silent, his eyes flickering rapidly over the paper. Roy knew he shouldn't look at him, but the masochistic urge was impossible to deny, like a god-sent punishment. "You're," Ed cleared his throat, obviously trying to remove the note of disbelief from his voice, "stationing me."

"The war has taken a turn for the worse." No explanation was good enough for this. "There's no other choice. You'll be leading a team in."

Ed was gripping the paper so hard Roy could see the fast-forming crinkles all the way across the room. "When?" He swallowed loudly, and Roy followed the bobbing motion of his throat.

His heart feeling like someone was crunching it in their fist, Roy answered, "Four days. The train leaves at eight Monday morning."

There was silence for a moment. Roy waited, anticipating the eruption, when instead, Ed closed his eyes and asked in a tiny voice, "How long have you known about this?"

The words were a blade, slid cleanly into Roy's chest. "Two weeks."

Ed, very calmly, very slowly, put the paper back down on Roy's desk. "I'll see you at home," he said, voice eerily blank, and left the room. He didn't look back.

When the door closed behind Ed, Roy walked wearily to his desk, sat down in his chair, and dropped his face into his hands.

*

Loving someone meant protecting them, meant holding them close to your heart and fighting away all the pain and injustice the world so often presented. Roy held that romantic ideal to be a known truth. Ed was – was still young. Twenty-five _was_ young, especially given he'd never really lived in the first place. Roy stared at his reflection in the side mirror, at the sparse gray infiltrating his dark hair, at the fine lines creeping from the corner of his eyes, and wondered why the world refused to cooperate with him.

"You told him." Havoc kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. It wasn't a question.

"I did," Roy confirmed.

"It didn't go well."

"Not at all." Ed had reacted as expected – and Roy knew he hadn't seen the worst of it yet. "It's my fault."

"Not really a point in thinking that," Havoc said. "This is it, you know."

Roy looked over, raising an eyebrow. "What is?"

"He's leaving soon," Havoc said. "So if I was you, not sayin' I'd ever want _that_ , but I'd try and be real nice."

"You make this too simple."

"You make it too hard," Havoc returned.

Maybe he did, and maybe that was the problem. Roy hardly had the time to worry about that, because Havoc had cut the engine, and the door was open, and Roy's feet were carrying him up the walkway and in the front door like this day was no different from any other before it.

That it quite clearly _was_ different didn't seem to change anything.

Ed was in the study, standing in front of the bookshelf on his toes, stretching up to the very top of it where he'd for some reason stacked several books. Roy could hear him muttering curses under his breath from the doorway.

Walking forward, Roy stood directly behind Ed and, reaching up quite calmly, pulled the stack of three books down and held them steady. Ed remained facing away for just a moment before turning, slowly, and staring somewhere over Roy's shoulder.

“Hi," Roy said. The word didn’t seem enough to bear the horrible weight of awkward anxiety between them.

Ed raised a brow and took the books. "Hi." His expression said, _is that the best you have?_

Well, yes, actually, it was. What does one say, in a situation like this? What could Roy possibly do? But admitting that he didn't know was worse, he supposed, than winging it. "You left."

"Did I really?" Ed asked, the words heavy with sarcasm. "Can you think of _why_?"

"I didn't lie to you."

"You've known for two weeks, right?" Ed met Roy's gaze, too intense. "Where was this assignment when we were—were eating together? Where was it when we were fucking? What, were you too worried that I'd get up and run? Roy, you fucking _ass_ —"

It felt too much like the early days, distrust ringing too clearly in Ed's eyes. They were equals, and Roy believed that with every fiber of his being. He and Ed were equals, and no military titles or positions of power had anything to do with them – but even so…

Roy grabbed Ed's shoulders when he tried to walk away, the books tumbling from Ed's hands at the sharp movement. "You won't even listen? Just like that, you're writing me off?"

"I'm fucking pissed," Ed said, voice strained with anger. "You know how hard it is not to hit you? Get your hands off me."

The quiet way Ed said it, the forced calm, sent a shiver straight through Roy's body. But he didn't move. Instead, he smoothed his hands down Ed's shoulders, his arms, and to his hands, lacing their fingers. "I've been trying to fight it."

"You don't get it," Ed said, but he didn't move. "I don't care—you can't stop things from happening, I don't care who you fucking are. You should've _told_ me. I don't care what happens."

Roy tightened his fingers. "I don't want you to go."

"It's not your choice."

"But I thought it would be," Roy said quietly, and Ed finally _looked_ at him.

"Don't be stupid," he said, giving Roy's hands a return squeeze. "I don't care where I am, right? But you do this all the time!"

"Do what?" Roy demanded.

"Try and protect me," Ed said easily, "when I don't need it."

Roy thought of Ishval, of war and violence and blood. He thought of Ed's life up until the moment he stepped into Roy's arms. He couldn't stop himself from saying, "If I can keep you here, I will."

"You run the country. You can't put a war on hold to keep me home," Ed said roughly. "It's my job. I signed on for this, even if—if I'd prefer not to do it."

If they could just stay there, just like that, Roy knew they'd be fine. If he could just stop the clock from turning so tomorrow never came –

But no. It was foolish to entertain such thoughts. In a few days, he would send Ed off to god knew what, and he would stay behind his desk, signing papers and fighting a war from the safest place in Amestris.

It didn't feel fair.

Roy's mind was full of his own uselessness, the very thing he'd been sure he could escape by reaching the top. For a brief, dark moment, he wondered if his goal had been worthless after all. If he couldn't protect Ed as the Fuhrer, as the goddamned leader of the country, then what good was he?

"Stop that," Ed snapped, shaking his hands from Roy's grip. "I can fuckin' see your wheels turning. Just—let it go, right?"

Letting it go – if only he could. Roy let his arms hang at his sides, hands feeling too empty without Ed's to hold onto. "I'm sorry."

Ed gave him a look, the one that said, _I know you_. "It's fine."

Roy's eyebrows shot up. "Fine? You're not angry?"

"I'm livid," Ed corrected him.

"Dinner," Roy suggested, desperate to break the strained quiet, to return some semblance of emotion beyond anger to Ed's eyes. "What would you like?"

"Whatever we have. Order in, if you'd like. I could eat anything." It wasn't forgiveness, not even close. Roy didn't think he could even call the tone of Ed's voice a truce. He was simply shutting Roy out.

"All right." Roy took a backwards step. "I'll just—send out for something."

"Okay." Ed stooped down to grab the books.

"I'll be back in just a minute."

"I'll be here."

When Roy left the room, it felt like losing.

*

Ed didn't speak to him over dinner that night. He simply took his share of the food and disappeared back into the office. Roy was afraid to go see him – the door would very likely be locked.

Roy went to bed alone that night. By the next morning, Ed's temper hadn't smoothed, so Roy went into the office as he would have on any other day. It was only through the strained expression on his face and the way his hands constantly faltered as he worked that his staff knew to step lightly.

"Sir?" Hawkeye stepped into his office, closing the door behind her – never a good sign. Roy dropped his pen and stretched his arms over his head.

"Yes?"

"I have Edward's team." She handed him a thicket of files. "He selected them this morning."

"That was quick," Roy muttered. He picked through personnel files. "Several of them have no real combat experience."

"Major Benson and Major Vaughn were only accepted into the alchemy program within the last two years," she said. "Major Enreich has a fair amount of experience."

"At least their specialties match the circumstances," Roy conceded. "And the others…"

"Second Lieutenant Levesque and First Lieutenant Sharpe are both combat specialists. I've worked with them," she added.

Another glance through the files, then Roy asked, "You've given your approval?"

"The team only needs yours," she confirmed.

Roy signed the document resting at the front of the files and handed it over to her. "See that a thorough background check is done."

"Already taken care of, sir."

*

Roy was home late that night. He saw no reason in hurrying, and in any case, he had quite the load of work sitting on his shoulders. Wars required a _lot_ of paperwork, which was reason enough to avoid them. Ed was already there, sitting in the kitchen, his reading glasses hugging the end of his nose as he pored over some archaic text or other.

"I'm home," Roy said. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

"I see," Ed said, a hint of that earlier anger still wrapped up in his words. But when he looked up, he was smiling – albeit a bit strained. "There's food." He waved over toward the counter where a sandwich was piled messily onto a plate, a glass of something sitting next to it.

Roy found himself unable to keep the relieved smile off his face. "How—" It possibly wasn't the best time to ask, and Roy knew this, cleared his throat, and kept going: "how are you?"

"Eat your dinner," Ed said. Then he pulled off his glasses and laid them aside. "I'm still pissed, you know."

"I do."

"But it's," Ed hesitated, "you're a dick. I _know_ you are, and I knew it when I—when we decided to stick together." Which was a very interesting way of referring to their relationship. Roy snorted.

"I am sorry," he said.

"I know you are. But I'm gonna be an adult here," Ed looked faintly pleased with himself, "and I'm gonna say let's deal with this later."

"Later?" Roy frowned. "What's later?"

"When I'm not goin' off to war," Ed said.

Roy took a seat at the table and set the sandwich down. His appetite suddenly didn't seem quite as strong.

*

Sunday night came far too quickly. Between the rushed preparations to send the special ops group off and the various diplomats Roy had to curry support with, it felt those few days had melded into a single one.

They'd both taken the day off. By the time evening rolled around, the strain in the atmosphere was overwhelming. Conversation over dinner, something once effortless, felt like the most impossible thing they could do. Every time Ed laughed, Roy felt his heart squeeze, felt like something was terribly wrong.

Even in bed – Ed's face planted between Roy's neck and shoulder, Roy gently pulling Ed's hair from its tight braid – the sense of normalcy, of content that Roy _knew_ should be between them simply wasn’t there.

"How are you?" Ed asked, the words a vibration against Roy's skin.

"Fine." _I should be asking you._

"I wish you wouldn't get like this," Ed said, lifting his head and propping himself up on his elbows. "You get so fuckin' stupid."

Brushing away the anger that began to bubble up at Ed's words, Roy dropped the younger man's hair, raising his hands to rub the heels of his palms against his tired eyes. "I know."

"Then don’t do it!" Ed shoved Roy's shoulder with his elbow – the left one, thankfully. The motion was a subtle way of saying he wasn't holding this against Roy.

"I thought I could change it." Roy rolled onto his side, facing Ed.

"You aren't supposed to get this involved," Ed reminded him. "I said, didn't I? When you got to be Fuhrer—"

"I know. I _know_." Ed had said it, loudly and at great length. He'd been certain that the moment Roy achieved his goal, he would be even less capable of stepping out of the line of fire and sending his loved ones to risk themselves.

The Fuhrer can't fight a battle, Roy reminded himself. Only the Fuhrer's men can.

Sleek metal fingers threaded through Roy's hair, pushing it off his forehead. Ed's automail hand felt good, cool against the warmth of the bedroom and the thick sheets.

"You're so stubborn," Ed said, almost in wonder.

"I really don't think you have room to talk," Roy huffed. Ed laughed.

"Maybe." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the sharp line of Roy's jaw. "We really gonna waste the night like this?"

Roy hummed. "Waste?"

"My last night here," Ed said mildly, one hand already under the sheets and creeping down the smooth plane of Roy's stomach, "and you're not gonna put out? Shame on you, Fuhrer Mustang."

"Oh," Roy said, and quite happily let Ed roll on top of him.

Apparently, he wasn't as angry as Roy had thought.

*

Ed was to lead a team into the central part of the warzone: alchemists and combat specialists, all of whom were prepared to lay their lives down for their Fuhrer. After a rushed morning, most of which Roy spent trying not to search for a last minute cure to their impending separation, he left himself at home, fixing his face into something neutral and intimidating, uniform prepared and speech rehearsed.

It was time to address the troops, to prepare them for a battle that very well might end up as their last.

The railway platform was empty, save for the six men heading North, accompanied by their families, and the Fuhrer and his entourage. Roy stood proudly before the line of men, meeting Ed's eyes for every word that he spoke.

"You have my appreciation," Roy could hear himself saying, "and that of Amestris. Regardless of what happens from this point forward…."

It was just words, endless, stupid, senseless words. He was sending them off to war, to death, to violence and pain and suffering. It was the very thing he'd vowed never to do –

Ed's eyes cut off the endless tirade of guilt in Roy's mind, the message remaining steady: _you can't change this._

Roy unclenched the fists at his side, tried to let his body relax, to stop the constant vibration of tension running through him. "Good luck," he said at last, and of all the words he could have said, these were the ones that rang truest.

He shook hands with each of the men as they boarded, and when he finally came to Ed, he couldn't help but lean forward, pressing a harsh kiss to Ed's cheek. "You'll come back," he said, the words rushed.

Ed leaned into Roy for a few unfulfilling seconds and said, "I promise I'll come back."

Roy watched the train disappear, standing shoulder to shoulder with the family members being left behind, and thought, _I can do this._

*

Train rides weren't the same without Al. Two days into the journey, and Ed had never felt more aware of his brother's absence. He found himself wishing for Al, for Winry, for Resembool and home and – all sorts of things, really, and none of them made any more sense than the last.

"Colonel Elric?" One of the men under him, the newest addition to the State Alchemist program, spoke up. He was the only one remaining in the compartment, the rest of the men wandering the train out of sheer boredom.

Ed scrambled for his name, but settled for the poor guy's rank. "Major?"

"Have you," the younger man fidgeted, his anxiety evident. "Have you ever been in a war?"

Ed was barely older than the other alchemist, rank aside, but in terms of experience, he was ages ahead. He remembered his name finally: Major Bensen, the Spark Alchemist, renowned for his ability to use electricity and metals in his alchemy in a way that had never been done before. "Yes," Ed said honestly. "I have."

His war had been different – immortal alchemical monsters, the Philosopher's Stone … There was hardly anything to compare.

"What was it like?" Bensen asked.

"Terrible," Ed said, looking down at his hands. "The worst thing I ever did."

Not much was said after that.

Ed looked out the window, at the snow and endless white, and found himself feeling guilty for wishing the three hours left between them and their destination would hurry and tick by.

*

After a week, Ed's absence was still a palpable pain. Roy continued as normal, devouring any and all news of the situation up north with an eagerness that bordered on mania. The people seemed pleased with his decisions, his reactions.

He was apparently the only one finding fault in himself. It was a new and different situation, that was for certain.

The radio stayed on at all times in the office, whether he was at Central HQ or in his home office. Its constant low murmur kept him calm somehow, even though the news consisted of things he'd not only already heard, but also had approved for public distribution himself.

"…troops began moving closer to the border, skirmishes breaking out just outside of the town of…"

He'd drafted Ed three letters already, each of his earlier attempts now resting in the bottom of his waste bin.

He'd balled up the first draft the moment he finished writing _Dear Ed_. The second draft managed a first sentence. _Dear Ed, I hope you deal better with cold than I dealt with heat the first time I went to Ishval_ , but that would have been depressing, so it got trashed as well. The third draft skipped the introduction and went straight to, _It's been a week, and I still can't handle sleeping alone._

That was even more depressing than the previous attempt, so he'd quickly crumpled it and shoved it in the bin.

 _Ed_ , he began, the introduction neutral enough, yet still personal. _I hope all is well_ — he scratched that out, replacing it with, _I hope the train ride wasn't too unbearable_. That wasn't bad. Bland, of course, but it wasn't depressing or ridiculously redundant.

 _I miss you_. He'd write a page full of just that if he could, a million _I miss you_ 's that still wouldn't be enough to express what he was feeling. Roy rested his elbow on his desk, cradling his chin in one hand as he tapped his pen against the wood, desperately trying to think of something to say. If Ed had been right there, right in front of him, Roy would have so much to say he wouldn't have been able to so much as imagine closing his mouth. But put a few days between them, and suddenly his mind was blank.

Once upon a time, a girlfriend had told Roy that misery became him. He'd thought it poetic, at first, but now he couldn't see the sense in the words.

 _I'm doing everything I can on my end_ , he continued. _I'll get you home as quickly as I can, you and all the soldiers stationed out there. You just hold up your end_. Ed would understand that best of all.

He scribbled out a few more lines, doodling an image of Black Hayate holding Hawkeye's gun in his mouth for a bit of levity. When he folded the letter and stamped it with the official seal of the Fuhrer, he felt certain there was so much more he could have said.

Putting it down on his desk, he grabbed up the phone, drumming his fingers while he waited for his assistant to pick up the other line.

" _Sir?_ " the woman finally answered.

"I have a letter," Roy said. "One that needs to be sent out immediately."

A brief pause, then, " _I'll be right in, sir_ ," and the line clicked, the call ended.

Roy set down the receiver and closed his eyes, the room dissolving into the low murmur of the radio. "…civilian deaths at an all-time low…"

*

Ed pulled his coat tighter against his throat, crouched down low behind a boulder as he motioned for his men to follow. Bensen was right at his back, breathing heavily. Ed could practically feel him shaking.

"We're nearly at the rendezvous point," Ed said, each word punctuated with a harsh, panted breath. "We just need to get further—"

"But we don't know where he is," Bensen cried, panicked. "We have no clue! And he has all of our—"

"This isn't the time for that," Ed cut him off. Behind Bensen, Enreich let out a whistling, pained breath. The man didn't have much time left, and they'd already lost one man. Ed didn't want to think of losing him as well. If Enreich died, it would just be him and Bensen and Levesque. Just the three of them wouldn't be a match for –

The ground three feet away from them exploded in a shower of snow and earth. Bensen let out a shriek, mirrored by a faraway voice which was quickly followed by a second thundering _boom_.

"They're here," Levesque said, voice almost drowning in the sea of explosions. "We have to move!"

Ed thought, and thought, and thought. There was simply no way.

They couldn't make it, not all of them, and Enreich was fading fast, his each pained breath harder for Ed to hear. They would not all leave this place alive.

For now, they were safe in the shelter of the rocky area Levesque had created - but it wouldn't last forever.

The ache of days of running, of battle, seemed to soak through Ed’s body. He found himself at an end.

"Take Enreich," he instructed Bensen, watching the younger soldier's eyes widen.

"You—"

"I can distract them for a bit," Ed continued.

"We'll all be dead if you leave!" Levesque argued.

"Don't be stupid," Ed snapped, still completely on guard. "You're panicking—an opening is all you need!"

"I'm fucked," Enreich said, "just go on, I'm dead anyway—"

"This is my fault," Ed said, calm despite the storm rising in his mind – there was clearly only one way out of this. "I didn't see the signs. If I'd paid any attention, he wouldn't have been able to do this."

"Colonel—"

"That's an order," Ed barked, watching the men fall into line despite themselves. "Get Enreich, and get out. I'll take care of the rest."

"Is there—anything else?" Levesque asked hesitantly, as he and Bensen each taking one of Enreich's arms.

"Tell the Fuhrer," Ed said, "that I'm sorry I couldn't keep our promise." The men looked confused, but he didn't expect them to understand his words – just to repeat them to the right man.

Turning away, Ed pressed his palms together.


	2. Chapter 2

They were the last words he ever wanted to hear, the ones he spent his nights thinking about, while the image of a train disappearing northward played again and again in his mind. Hawkeye was at his side, her hand resting on his arm, and the officer reporting was shaking, sweat gathering on his forehead.

"Of the two surviving members," the officer stumbled over the words, "Second Lieutenant Levesque is in critical condition, and Major Bensen sustained several injuries, though he was well enough to send the report. They, ah." Again, the officer stumbled. "They brought back Major Enreich's body."

Roy couldn't get his mouth to move. The officer was obviously waiting for him, but _he_ was waiting for the room to stop spinning, for his blood to start flowing again, for reality to kick in and for someone to tell him it was all a joke.

No one did.

"What of Colonel Elric?" Hawkeye finally asked, squeezing Roy's arm. "And the other members?"

"The details are still foggy," the officer said apologetically. "Major Bensen was somewhat disoriented, and they had to break the debriefing for him. We're still waiting for the final report."

"But as far as you know," she began again, trailing off.

The officer nodded. "To the best of our knowledge, every member of the party not present in Northern HQ is presumed dead or captured by Drachman forces."

Roy's stomach lurched. He cleared his throat. "Prepare a search team," he said, surprised at his even tone. "I'll—"

"Sir," Hawkeye said, her voice a sharp reminder. "Allow me to lead."

It was both a suggestion and a warning. Roy suddenly felt himself thrown back to reality in the most unpleasant of ways. He was the Fuhrer. A search party was no place for the head of state.

"That would be perfect, General," Roy said smoothly, transitioning into the idea with an ease he didn't feel. "Organize the party and report to me in an hour."

"I'll be with you in thirty minutes," Hawkeye said and, inclining her head, swiftly left the room.

The officer looked nervous, suddenly left alone with the Fuhrer. Roy didn't blame him. "If there's anything else…" He stared at the man expectantly, raising a brow when the man started.

"No, sir," the officer stammered out, saluting hastily. "I'll report back the moment new details surface."

Roy nodded, slow. "Dismissed," he said.

When the door shut behind the soldier, Roy pressed a hand over his eyes and reminded himself, desperately, of Ed's promise.

*

Hawkeye had her team assembled in fifteen. A train meant for civilians to travel up to North City had been commandeered and rescheduled, giving her and her men leave to travel within an hour of reporting to him.

"Please don't worry too much," was all the advice she'd given him.

And how was he meant to do that? They were still waiting on the final details from the survivors, and Roy knew that meant speaking directly with at least one of the men via a telephone conference with several other officers. He'd have to call Hawkeye on the train immediately after, and –

He wasn't sure he could do it. His hands were still shaking.

Part of him resisted the idea that Ed might be dead – or worse. Another part of him seemed, somehow, to perk at the thought, as though he was only looking for another reason to say, _if only I'd done this instead …_

Havoc was the one to alert him. If it weren't for the single crutch he still had to walk with, Roy was certain the man would be on the train with Hawkeye. "We've just gotten word that the debriefing ended." Havoc hovered just inside the doorway. "We're ready to reconvene in the meeting hall."

Roy stood, rolling his shoulders and trying to shake himself back to reality. "Who will we be speaking with?"

"You'll be speaking to," Havoc frowned, "Major Bensen? He was one of the alchemists."

The meeting room was in another building. Havoc accompanied Roy, and Roy, not for the first time, was grateful for the man's presence. "What do we know?"

"Right now? Nothing. We haven't received any of the intel from the debriefing. This is it." Havoc gestured broadly.

That didn't sound good – not good at all. "I take it there's a reason for that?" Roy glanced at Havoc, who shrugged.

"Like I said, we don't know yet." There was an air of forced casualness in everything Havoc said, as though he expected the slightest sign of alarm or concern to set Roy off. Maybe it would. Roy wasn't in the mood to find out.

Just before they stepped into the meeting hall, in the moment before Roy steeled himself, Havoc grabbed his shoulder and said, very quietly, "The boss is tough. He's managed so far."

And that, Roy supposed, was that.

He tried to take comfort in Havoc's words, but there was only so far he could pretend in his own mind. Even as he was taking his seat at the head of the table, with a neutral face and an automatic pose of calm and control, Roy's mind was churning out scenario after scenario, each worse and bloodier than the last.

Fuery was at the center of the table, fiddling with a dark box – the transmitter. "If you're ready, sir," he began.

Roy nodded. "Go ahead."

The radio was a model Roy hadn't seen yet, and had the situation been different, he might have taken the opportunity to admire it. As it was, it was all he could do to focus on the present, on the crackling static and, finally, the sound of a weary voice – one Roy didn't recognize.

" _Major Bensen reporting._ "

Fuery looked to Roy. The floor was his. Roy cleared his throat and began: "Major, what is the state of your team?"

There a pause. Then, " _With all due respect, sir, I don't really have a team anymore. Lieutenant Levesque made it through surgery, but one of his legs was amputated. Major Enreich is dead, and the rest_ —" He broke off.

Roy fought to keep his face blank. "And the rest?" He leaned forward, as though getting closer to the radio would somehow encourage the man on the other end of the line to speak.

" _Lieutenant Sharpe was the first to die. He'd noticed something. And then he just_ ," Bensen kept stumbling over his words and pausing, trying to keep an even tone. The strain in his words was painful to hear. " _Major Vaughn betrayed us._ "

Roy sat back, blinking. The room exploded into sound all at once, and it took Havoc bellowing from the opposite end of the table to settle everyone down again. "Betrayed you?" Roy asked. He couldn't believe it. He'd had thorough background checks done on all of the men Ed choose – Hawkeye had done thorough checks as well. What could they possibly have missed? The man was nothing special, not from what little Roy could recall of his personnel file.

" _I don't know when it happened. But he was in contact with a squadron of Drachmans—there were alchemists there, too._ " The Major swallowed audibly. " _We were about to head to the rendezvous point after scouting an area we'd won—a skirmish from the week before? But Vaughn—it happened very quickly_." Bensen paused. " _Colonel Elric tried to get us all out, but it didn't work. There were_ —" He let out a short, flat laugh. " _It was like watching insects crawl out of the ground. One moment, it was just the team—the next, Drachmans were flooding into the area, and they all had weapons. And alchemy. I've never seen Drachman alchemy before_." There was a note of wonder in his voice.

"What happened to Colonel Elric?" Roy could barely keep his tone even. His voice broke just slightly on the last word, but no one in the room acknowledged it.

" _He stayed behind so we could get out. Major Enreich was almost dead anyway, but the Colonel wouldn't listen to him when Enreich asked to be left. He gave me and the Lieutenant an opening so we could get out._ " He stopped. But before Roy could say anything else, Bensen added: " _He said I should pass on a message to you, sir—sorry, for not keeping his promise. I don't know what he meant._ "

Roy couldn't say anything after that.

Ed had promised – that he apologized… Roy swallowed once, then again, and tried to clear the lump from his throat. If he tried to speak, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. The room would go blurry and his voice would crack and everything would go to hell.

With nothing left to do, Roy put a hand over his eyes and focused on breathing.

Mercifully, Havoc seemed to pick up on his state, and quickly took control of the meeting, recapturing the attention of a few errant gazes that seemed more interested in their commander-in-chief's own distress than the situation at hand. He hit all the relevant points Roy should have ( _Did anyone actually see Colonel Elric die? No? Then why wasn't a search launched for him?_ ) and then, having worked with Roy too long not to understand, dismissed the officers in the room and closed the doors behind them. He walked over to where Roy sat, his gait heavy and stuttered, reminding Roy sharply of Ed, and put his hand on Roy's shoulder. "Let's go, Chief."

Roy got to his feet and cleared his throat. "Send through to General Hawkeye. I'll need to fill her in." There was a laundry list of things needing done, a war still to win. Roy just needed to work, that was all. He just needed to sit down at his desk and close his office and try not to think for a few hours – and then maybe, just maybe, this would all make sense.

"It hasn't even been confirmed yet," Havoc said quietly. "The boss is tough." Roy was bizarrely thankful that Havoc hadn't been more specific than 'it'.

"Of course," Roy said. They were still just standing in the meeting room, Havoc's hand on his shoulder, and Roy just – just doing nothing, actually. He had no idea how he actually felt. He felt anaesthetized, numb, as if his mind was completely divided from his heart. And wasn't that the strangest thing? "The call," he reminded. "Get through to Hawkeye." There was still so much to do, miles to go before he could stop.

Roy was thankful for _that_ , too.

*

There was an awful lot of blood. Ed's automail was in shreds – and all over the ground. Something glinting a few feet away might have been a finger, or part of one, but Ed couldn't muster the strength to lift his head from the frozen ground to look at it.

Vaughn's body wasn't far off, and even as his vision began to darken, Ed could tell that Vaughn hadn't been lucky enough to survive the fall. His body was utterly still, contorted on its side. His neck was bent at an impossible angle, and his mouth was twisted open. As Ed stared, Vaughn's tongue, swollen, lolled out of his mouth.

Ed tried to move, fighting against his head’s drunken sluggishness, and felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. He managed to roll off his stomach, but as he did, the pain flared so intensely it made him dry heave. His ribs, he noted numbly. They were broken, or bruised, or something – regardless, he was going to have a hard time getting to his feet.

Ed barely had the energy to do anything beyond shifting uneasily on his back and giving a muttered, barely-there, "fuck." He was caught between fear of exacerbating his wounds or the possibility of simply allowing the cold to kill him.

If he didn't do something soon, he realized, the point would be moot. With a grunt, Ed managed to sit up, aggravating the burning ache in his abdomen and tasting a bitter, coppery fluid in the back of his throat. The sudden motion caused his vision to blacken. Ed raised his flesh hand to press on the side of his head where the pain seemed to center. When he pulled his hand away, it was damp and red.

The strangest thing, as he fought against the tide of darkness threatening to overtake his vision, was how little he could actually feel the cold. The mangled automail left attached to his ports wasn't aching, and his face wasn't cold at all. He was pleasantly numb – and Ed knew well enough that _that_ wasn't a good sign.

Gritting his teeth, he used his one arm to pull himself up – and sensation returned in the form of pain lancing down his side and throughout his body. It was agonizing, unbearable, but he could feel something. That alone was worth the trouble.

The cliff he and Vaughn had fallen down stretched high above him, creating a wall of frozen earth at his side. Ed pressed his hand to the side of it, and used the wall for leverage to get to his feet – or rather, foot. What was left of his automail leg was enough to balance on, but it was barely better than having a peg leg. The toes were completely shattered, and the foot itself was crunched in toward the ankle.

There wasn't time to pause and take stock of his injuries. Once Ed managed to get a hold on the wall and start jerking himself up, he was panting so hard that the air in front of him was a constant fog. His mind had short-circuited. Any thoughts beyond, _have to move_ and _not dying here_ were impossible to comprehend.

Getting balanced and upright was trouble enough, but the moment he tried to take a step, that shooting pain in his side bounced off the inside of his ribcage, white hot and relentless. Ed's back hit the wall and he fought desperately not to cave again, to remain upright. If he fell back to the ground, he wasn't stupid enough to think he'd be able to get back up.

His hand shaking, he braced himself on the wall and reached out to sketch an array into it. He had to scratch his nail into the wall to make an impression on the dirt, as frozen as it was, but Ed managed. Moving painstakingly slowly, he tapped his hand to the circle and transmuted a pole. It was long enough to sit on the ground and stretch all the way up to his shoulder.

Gingerly, Ed used the pole to get his footing, and took a step away from the wall, letting out a pained, wheezing laugh when he managed to stay upright.

So long as he could stand on his own two feet, Ed refused to give in.

*

Havoc had been uncharacteristically quiet after he steered Roy into his office and closed the door behind him. Havoc's office was neat, surprisingly so, and the top of his desk was always arranged in such a way that Roy itched to knock over the penholder or scatter the perfectly stacked papers across it. It was just unnatural.

"Did you notice anything?" Havoc asked.

Roy's mind was still picking at the most inane details, a desperate attempt to keep his mood balanced. It was easier to think of office supplies than it was to think of Ed.

But Havoc wasn't having it. "Sir," he said again, much louder, He grabbed Roy by his arm and shoved him into the seat opposite the desk. "We don't have the time for this right now, chief," Havoc said. "Pull it together."

Roy rubbed at his eyes. "You're right. Sorry. Try that again." He had to pull it together. There wasn't time to fall apart, not yet.

"Major Bensen seemed awfully nervous. Something about what he was saying didn't seem," Havoc paused, letting out a frustrated noise. "He was holding back."

"For what reason?" Roy tried to scrounge through his memory. It hadn't even been half an hour, but it felt like he'd heard the news and had to live with it for years already.

"I don't know. But something wasn't right. He couldn't answer most of what I asked him, and when I brought up a search party, he froze altogether. That kid knows something's wrong, but he didn't say what."

The look on Havoc's face said enough. Roy's stomach dropped. "Or couldn't. Whose command is he under now?"

"Colonel Ruther. He's from North City, so I don't know much of him. He's been there since Ishval."

Thinking, Roy pursed his lips. "I can't say I know much of him. Contact North City and see if you can't—wait. No, contact Briggs. General Armstrong."

"I'll take care of it." Havoc stood. "I'll catch up with you once I've got something."

Roy stood, nodding. "I'll be waiting."

The first thing he did once in his own office was get in contact with Hawkeye - just as soon as Roy had slammed shut the lid on his impending breakdown. Later, at home, he could act however and feel however, but until he set foot inside his front door, Roy refused to be anything but his job.

" _Vaughn isn't someone I knew_ ," was Hawkeye's even response to the news of the betrayal. She sounded as steady and calm as usual. It was oddly comforting. " _Who recommended him into the alchemy program?_ "

"Believe it or not," Roy said, shifting through Vaughn's personnel file, "Ed did. He oversaw Vaughn's testing."

" _That's problematic_ ," Hawkeye muttered. In the background, Roy could hear someone speaking to her – Hawkeye didn't acknowledge them, at least not aloud. " _What sector should we focus the search on?_ "

Roy cleared his throat. "Of the four sectors Ed's team was left in charge of, he went—missing," he nearly couldn't say the word, "in sector four, barely half a mile out from the rendezvous point. What's odd is that whoever pursued the team stopped immediately once Ed broke off from them. Other than hearing a few of the final explosions, the camp sitting on the edge of sector five was completely unaware of the battle."

" _Then the attack was deliberate. They were after Edward from the start._ "

"It looks that way," Roy said slowly. He set the file down and adjusted the receiver, holding it to his ear with his shoulder while he grabbed for the stack of intel files Havoc had left beside his desk. "You'll want to debrief Major Bensen once you arrive. And Lieutenant Levesque, if he's able."

" _Sir, with all do respect, I think it's imperative to begin the search as soon as possible._ "

"Then leave a team behind," Roy said. "Use the radio. I get the feeling—and Havoc agreed—that Bensen wasn't able to say all he needed to over the transmission. He was holding back."

" _There's someone in Central he doesn't trust?_ "

"It seems," Roy said, "that I've been ignorant to more than a few things. We'll leave it at that for now."

" _Be careful, sir._ "

"You do the same."

It wasn't quite four when Roy’s secretary shuffled him out of his own office. Havoc was waiting down at the motor pool, looking grave.

Roy raised an eyebrow at him when Havoc opened the passenger door. "While I appreciate the sentiment, Major, I think you have quite a bit more to do than drive me around town."

"In the car, sir," Havoc said. He sounded strained. Roy dropped the argument and climbed into the car.

"I suppose you're going to tell me what this is about?" he asked when Havoc seated himself in the driver's seat. His crutch rested across the back seat, balancing against the far right window.

"Don't drive with anyone else for a few days," Havoc said. "Something's off. I thought something was off as soon as you told me Ed was specifically commissioned for this, and I should've said something then."

Roy looked straight ahead. "You think this was a setup. Someone wanted Ed dead." He was proud of how even his voice was.

"No, sir," Havoc said seriously. "I think someone wanted the boss out of the way so they could take care of you."


	3. Chapter 3

The trouble with the border patrol was that they trusted no one _but_ the border patrol. North City's soldiers were infamous for their suspicious natures, but the closer one got to the actual border, the more that innate suspicion shifted to paranoia.

Hawkeye crossed her ankles beneath the table and folded her hands on top of it, fixing the soldier across from her with a dead stare. "It seems to me, Captain," she began, "that you're withholding information from a superior officer. Am I correct?"

She'd been going back and forth with Captain Langley from nearly the moment that she'd set foot off the train. She'd asked a simple question: where is Colonel Ruther?

"No, sir," Langley was quick to say. "But I can't say where the colonel is." He paused. "He's on a mission." From the look of unease on his face, Hawkeye assumed she wasn't supposed to know even that.

"When was the last time he reported in?"

Langley seemed relieved at the question. "You'd have to speak to someone else for that. Someone directly under him might know. I'm just passing through."

Hawkeye fixed him with a skeptical look. "What, exactly, does passing through entail, Captain?"

"We've had a few losses here. I was originally stationed out closer to the eastern border, but I was brought here after North City lost a number of soldiers in one of the skirmishes." He glanced over her shoulder toward the door, and raised his chin.

Hawkeye turned her head. In the doorway stood a young man with a deep bruise spreading upward from beneath the collar of his uniform and across the lower part of his right cheek. He was staring at her, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

"Can I help you?" she asked, turning in her chair.

"General Hawkeye?" he asked. She nodded, and he looked immediately relieved. "Major Bensen," he said, stepping into the room proper and holding out his hand. She stood and took it without hesitation.

"It's good to see you," Hawkeye said. She turned around briefly to dismiss Langley, but not before tacking on, "I'll find you later to confirm a few things."

Bensen took Langley's seat, sinking down gingerly. "I was wondering who they'd send, sir. The colonel spoke highly of you."

"We worked together for a long time," she said, vague, as she situated herself at the table. "I see you're on your feet again. How's Lieutenant Levesque?"

"There's been talk of submitting him to the automail rehab program. He was," Bensen cleared his throat. "He was very badly injured." Another brief pause, then he added: "Major Enreich's funeral is tomorrow."

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "They aren't returning his body to Central?"

"He didn't have any family, so no. The state has full control of it." There was a note of irritation in Bensen's voice. "And they haven't bothered trying to find any of the others."

"Really?" So Roy had been right. Something was amiss here. "Are you suggesting that there may be survivors?" She was careful to maintain an even tone.

"Of course," Bensen said angrily. "The colonel never died, not that I saw!" His eyes cut to the doorway, then back to Hawkeye. "They just took my report and told me that the colonel had died."

"Told you?"

"He never died," Bensen reasserted. "Or at least, I didn't see it. He was just—giving us a chance! And we left him…" He slumped in his seat, looking defeated and very young.

"I see." That was enough for now. She stood and stooped to pick up her briefcase where it sat next to the table. "Be careful, Major, of what you say," she advised.

Bensen gave her a disconcerted look. "You're leaving, sir?"

"I have an investigation to run and a search party to lead," she said. "But should you find yourself remembering anything relevant, come to me first. That's an order."

"Sir," Bensen said, saluting. He sounded tired.

So Edward had merely been assumed dead without any evidence of his fate. No search team had been arranged, there had been no in-depth debriefing beyond a few simple questions… Something was definitely off.

*

The first call came in several minutes before four in the morning. Roy had only just fallen into an uneasy sleep on the office couch, so the first ring startled him back to consciousness with ease. He got to his feet and padded over to the phone, fixed on the wall next to his desk. He picked up on the third ring, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

"Mustang."

" _I hope I didn't interrupt anything, sir_." Hawkeye's voice sounded obscenely alert given the time of morning.

"Other than my sleep schedule?" Roy joked half-heartedly. "Not really. What's the news?"

" _I've spoken to Major Bensen_ ," she said. Then a pause. " _Is this line secure?_ "

"Yes." Roy kicked the chair back from under the desk and dropped into the seat. "What's happening?"

" _There was never a search team, and there wasn't much of a debriefing. A few questions to Major Bensen. Lieutenant Levesque wasn't given the time of day._ "

"You've spoken to the lieutenant? I'd heard he was too injured to communicate."

" _You heard wrong_ ," she said bluntly. " _He's injured, but he's coherent. He was coming off anesthesia when I managed to catch him. Though_ ," she sounded irritated, " _they certainly did whisk him away as fast as possible._ "

"And Colonel Ruther?"

" _Not at the base. And no one's talking, either. I've been given the impression that he's on some sort of mission, but_ —"

"But given his rank, that would be ridiculous," Roy finished. "Any theories?"

" _Aside from the obvious cover-up, I can only assume someone here has a grudge against Edward—or you. It's possible the Northern bases have been infiltrated by Drachmans, but given that they'd have to cross Briggs first, it's unlikely._ "

Olivier Armstrong made that 'unlikely' more of an 'impossible'. "Could you get to Briggs? Perhaps…" He tapped his chin. "I'm going to have Major Bensen removed from Colonel Ruther's command. I'll get him re-stationed, and then we'll find a way to deal with the lieutenant—"

" _Are you sure that's wise, sir?_ " Hawkeye asked. " _You might be playing your hand too soon._ "

"I don't want to risk losing what little information we have," Roy replied.

Hawkeye let out a short breath, a sign of her thin patience on the matter. " _My suggestion, sir, would be to submit Lieutenant Levesque to the Briggs automail rehabilitation program. Transfer Major Bensen alongside him. It's going to look suspicious either way, but at least it will be done._ "

Roy made a note to do just that. "I can work with that," he mused. The automail program was so heavily stressed for injured soldiers, particularly those on the warfront, that likely no one would think anything of it. "When will the search team go out?"

" _We'll be leaving in three hours. I've had volunteers from some of the soldiers here. I thought it best to leave them out for now._ "

"Don't take chances if you don't have to," Roy warned. If he lost her too …

" _The same to you, sir._ "

*

Ed had done an awful lot of stupid things in his life, but walking straight into Drachman territory had to top it. Granted, he wasn't functioning at his best, but really.

The zone his team had been securing wasn't technically Amestrian property. Or at least, it hadn’t been before the war. It was captured land, and it fell just south of a small Drachman village. Ed was discovering the village itself to be a dismal little place, cold and overcast and very gray-looking. The people walked with their heads down. From the nook of trees Ed had stationed himself in, every doorway he could see was closed, every window shuttered.

It was a town anticipating the worst. Perhaps they'd even already given up.

Part of him wondered if he might perhaps get lucky. Maybe the military was already on its way – or at the very least, a search team.

He took a deep breath, and shrugged off the thought. He couldn’t afford to slack off and get distracted by daydreams right now: a search team wouldn't matter, not if he couldn't keep his eyes open. Ed leaned heavily against a tree, blinking and shaking his head to remain alert. If he could just keep his eyes open, he'd be fine.

Being conscious of that, of course, meant that keeping his lids from shutting suddenly became twice as difficult.

It was getting colder as the day wore on. Ed's ports ached and his head was still ringing with pain. His leg shook from the effort to keep on his feet. Something had to be done.

The little town looked awfully remote. Ed gave it another thoughtful look. He’d noticed that there appeared to be no Drachman soldiers anywhere. As close as they were to Amestrian territory, had the Drachmans backed down? It was possible. And if the people in this village had, indeed, been left behind, then they were defeated already. There was no reason that Ed couldn't sneak in. He could find some food, a place to rest and assess his injuries – maybe even the means to contact the base. The others should have long since returned. Ed refused to acknowledge the opposite possibility.

As the sky began shifting from a drab gray to a darker shade, Ed made up his mind: there was no other choice. Risking a night in the northern cold – in his condition – was suicide, and he had no intention of dying.

It was difficult to keep quiet when he still had to use the stick to hold himself steady, but Ed made it out of the trees, and managed to get behind a shabby-looking wooden building without drawing any extra attention to himself. Pausing, he peered around the side of it. He was safe. There were a few men still working outside in the tiny dirt roads, but not a single one of them was paying him any mind.

Adjusting his grip on the stick, he crept around the other side of the building, his automail leg dragging slightly. As frozen as the ground was, Ed still left behind scuff marks, a stilted line in his wake. He scowled. Trying to brush it out of view wouldn't do him any good. He couldn't afford to waste time – or to make needless sound. He’d just have to chance it.

Ed was walking between two buildings as quickly as his condition would allow when he heard it: a ghastly mechanical creak, followed by a sharp pop. His automail knee gave a terrible tremor. Ed froze.

 _Fuck._

He gave his leg an experimental wiggle, and the problem quickly made itself known: his knee had somehow destabilized, likely from damages sustained during the fall. One more step, and the joint would probably fall to pieces.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

It was the stupidest thing, but his mind kept repeating that over and over: _this wasn’t supposed to happen_ , as if whining like a kid was going to fix his leg or get him out of that town. If he lost it now, he was screwed.

Ed wobbled a bit, then dropped the stick to lean down and grab his knee with the one hand he had left, probing at the external shell to see if he could find some way to fix it. As reluctant as he was to use alchemy, he didn't seem to have a choice.

Suddenly, Ed regretted never having forced Winry to explain just what the hell she did to make his limbs, anyway.

He tried to piece together some vague idea of the leg's inner workings. He'd only ever been able to manipulate the shell of his arm. Had the trouble with his leg been in the casing, he was certain he could have fixed it. But to toy with the inside, the joints themselves? He could always simply meld it, Ed figured. In its current state, the leg was already little more than a means by which to prop himself upright. Sure, he wouldn't be able to maneuver quite as well, and his speed would definitely suffer. What other option did he have, though?

Taking a quick look around, Ed grabbed his watch from his pocket, holding the clip at the end of the chain. If he bent it just enough, he could scratch an array into the knee. Dropping down on the ground, his flesh leg crooked at the knee, he stretched the automail carefully out until it was completely straight. Using his teeth, he bent the clip out of place. Then he pressed it to the part of the shell housing the joint, scratching lightly, then harder when a result wasn't immediate.

His hand shook from the cold, so he had to go slow. But fuck, if it wasn't hard to stay awake now that he wasn't on his feet!

When the array was finally done, he took another cautious look around, reassuring himself that he was alone, and activated it. The melted metal went hot, bubbling, then it flowed outward, filling the many crevices surrounding the knee area. Despite a brief moment of anxiety when the bubbling liquid seemed to come a bit close to his port – _fuck, fuck, fuck, if I miscalculated this…_ – the transmutation appeared immediately successful. The heat travelled up to his port, a blessed bit of warmth for what felt like the first time in forever. Then, just as quickly, the metal regained solidity as a final spark of blue halted the process. Ed grabbed the stick again, using it to haul himself to his feet, his watch grasped haphazardly between his palm and the stick.

His leg was definitely melted solid. When he took a step, awkward and slow, something rattled within it, but he figured there wasn't a whole lot he could do about that at the moment.

Satisfied, Ed slowly, painstakingly made his way out from between the buildings. His path looked clean. He'd just get through and between the buildings across the road. There was smoke rising from that side of the village, perhaps from an inn or somewhere with food cooking. With his stomach gurgling pathetically at the thought of food, Ed crossed from between the buildings and into the road.

Just to his right, a door opened, and a man with a large bundle stepped out, swinging the bag when he turned to close the door.

The bag caught Ed squarely in the chest. It sent him stumbling back a few steps, dropping both the stick and his watch – which rolled unsteadily into the path of the villager. The man looked at Ed, then down at the watch at his feet.

He said something in another language – _Drachman_ , Ed's mind numbly supplied – and another door opened somewhere behind Ed. He didn't bother turning around. There was nowhere left for him to go.

*

General Armstrong had plenty to say about Colonel Ruther, as it turned out. That he was a spineless coward topped her list.

"But she said, and this is a direct quote: _there's no way that idiot Ruther could ever manage to ally with a Drachman. They'd kill him sooner than look at him._ "

"That sounds like her," Roy agreed. "But what proof did she offer to back that up?"

Havoc shrugged. "None. She wasn't exactly impressed with anything I had to say. Said she had a few openings at Briggs she might like to fill, if you had a few guys to spare, though."

At that, Roy nearly laughed. She was as on top of her game as ever. "I've already put in the transfer," he said. "Is there anything else?"

"I agree with her," Havoc admitted. "Ruther doesn't have a very impressive track record. But he does have some interesting connections back home. Did you know he was allied with Raven, way back when?"

"General Raven?" Roy raised an eyebrow. "How closely allied?"

"He worked under him. Made it through all the mess of reconstruction, though, without getting charged with anything, so I don't know how involved he was in any of _that_." Havoc toyed with an unlit cigarette. Roy rolled his eyes and held out a gloved hand, snapping a moment after Havoc tucked the roll between his lips. They grinned at each other. Roy was hardly going to refuse the man a bit of stress relief, not at a time like this.

"He was transferred to East City for a time," Havoc counted. "Then to Central. Worked under Grumman, during his Fuhrership. That's when Ruther got promoted to Colonel and sent to North City."

"Has there been any word as to what this mission of his is?"

"Not a one," Havoc said.

"Unsurprising."

"Oh?" Havoc asked. "Kinda surprises _me_ , chief."

"He deserted," Roy said. "Obviously, I can only offer that as a guess, but according to reports, he disappeared shortly before Ed's team returned. He knew what was coming."

"Then he's probably over the border by now," Havoc said, quiet. "Damn."

"But this leaves the question," Roy began, "about who else was involved? This mission was offered specifically for Ed. I want to know why and by who – and I want to know who recommended Ed take Vaughn."

The sooner they knew that, the sooner they could act. Until then, Roy was stuck sitting on his hands, waiting for a hint of good news. Hawkeye had sounded optimistic, and it was not her habit either to conceal bad news or to be hopeful without reason. He'd have to hold on to that.

*

Hawkeye led the team in the exact path Bensen had described for her. If Ed was alive – and she staunchly refused to believe otherwise – then they would find him, she decided.

Of course, that made their first find all the more unexpected.

They found Ruther's body at the edge of a cliff, below which a steep fall ended onto frozen solid earth. A single shot had been fired into the back of his head. He had fallen face first without a single sign of struggle. It was a military execution.

"Get down there," she ordered two of her six-man team. "I want the area below checked for any possible signs of struggle."

She crouched down at Ruther's side, unwilling to actually touch and disturb what might be necessary clues to Ed's whereabouts. After instructing two of the other men to return to the base and retrieve the acting head of investigations, she peered over the cliff.

"You're getting a bit close, sir," the remaining soldier, Lieutenant Grant, said, eyeing her warily.

Hawkeye stared down – and continued staring. There was simply no way.

"Sir?"

"There’s a body," she said. "Another one."

The men she'd sent down had been forced to walk further along the ridge to find a possible way down, and they were only just ending their climb. She called out to them, but they'd already caught sight of it.

"Who is it?" she called down. Her heart had gone completely still. _Not him_ , was all she could think.

And it wasn't. "Major Vaughn!" one of the soldiers returned, waving a dogtag in his hand. "He's dead!"

Obviously. Hawkeye allowed herself to relax, and stepped away from the edge. Ruther was dead. Vaughn was dead. They were out of suspects for this betrayal.

But where was Ed?

*

"I've never heard anything good about Briggs," Levesque confided, the small carry-on they'd been allowed tucked under his seat. His face was still looking swollen, but on the whole, he looked much better than he had when Bensen had dragged him into the infirmary. Less bloody, especially – though it was still strange, seeing him with one foot on the ground and the other pant-leg rolled up and pinned where the stump of his thigh ended.

"The colonel spent time there," Bensen said.

Levesque let out a low, disapproving sound. "Everything I ever heard about Briggs, I heard from him."

Bensen's stomach bottomed out. "Oh."

The car lurched abruptly and ran over something large. If the vile crunching sound was anything to go by, the hapless wildlife, whatever it had been, was immediately crushed. The military car sent by General Armstrong was really more like a tank than anything Bensen had ever been in before. He glanced over to the window dividing the front cab from the backseat and tried to make out the face of the driver. No luck.

"Do you think he's alive?" Bensen asked, keeping his voice low. He didn't need to specify who 'he' was.

Levesque rolled his eyes and replied gruffly, "'Course he is. Ain't no way I'll ever outlive the colonel." But there was something off in his tone. Bensen decided to attribute it to lingering anesthesia.

"They just—told me he was dead," Bensen continued quietly. "They aren't going to look for him."

"General Hawkeye went out with a team this morning," Levesque reminded. "They'll find him."

"And Vaughn?" Bensen asked. "What about him? They wouldn't even speak to me about him."

"Ruther did," Levesque reminded.

Bensen straightened, giving his comrade a disbelieving look. "No, he didn't. I never even saw him!"

"I saw him," Levesque said, shrugging. "Right when they checked me into the infirmary." Then he laughed. "If you can even call that shithole an infirmary—"

"You _saw_ Ruther? On _base_?" Bensen interrupted. "They told me he'd gone on a mission! They hadn't even seen him!"

"He went out looking for the colonel, didn't he?" Levesque said. "That's what he told me. Looked like shit when I saw him. If it hadn't been insubordinate, I'd have told him so, too."

Something was very off. "But everyone told me that Colonel Ruther was on a mission," Bensen clarified. "They said he'd been gone for at least a day before we showed up."

"Well, that can't be right," Levesque argued. "I saw the guy! And I _know_ I saw what I saw."

"I need to speak with someone," Bensen said. Then he looked quickly at Levesque. "Keep your mouth shut about this, right? You haven't said anything to anyone, have you?"

"Not a soul," Levesque promised, raising his hand to his heart. "What, you think someone's trying to come after us? The colonel's the one they'll be after. Besides, we're kind of out of the way now. Briggs and all."

Bensen passed a nervous glance to the window again, then settled resignedly into his seat. "We're not there _yet_ ," he muttered.


End file.
